Private Celebrations

As the sun continued to rise, the rebel soldiers took full possession of the western shore. The Seventeenth and Nineteenth Legions pursued the enemy, not to give battle, but simply ensure they had no opportunity to regroup for a counterattack while the Tenth and Thirteenth recovered. The soldiers of the former were given no duties, considering they had borne the brunt of the battle; the Thirteenth, most of whose legionaries had not entered the battle, burned the dead, collected their equipment, and made a fortified camp.

As evening came, celebrations erupted, as could be expected. A hard-fought battle had been won, their adversary driven away, and nothing could now bar their way to Morcaster. Along with spoils taken from the dead and the plundered enemy camp, the soldiers were jubilant. Every man felt that victory was assured; if the emperor's legion could not defend a bridge, how could they defend a city as extensive as the capital?

In their exuberance, few of the soldiers seem to care any more about the original cause for this strife, or what they had once envisioned victory would look like. They were no longer soldiers of the Empire, seeking reasonable restitution and otherwise loyal; they were rebels, and they sought the spoils of a successful rebellion.

"Martel? Are you inside?"

Sitting in his tent, even if he had not recognised the voice, Martel knew only one person who addressed him in this manner. "How did you know?"

Eleanor stepped inside. "You have a curious habit of hiding in your tent after victory."

"I don't know why. I should be thrilled, but it feels like every victory is purchased at such a cost, it barely seems worth it. At the same time, we must press on to claim each new victory, always bought at an ever increasing price, or our previous losses have been wasted."

She removed his cloak bundled up on his chair, placed it on his cot next to him, and took the now empty seat. "You seem in a dark mood for someone who accomplished a great marvel today."

"I'm sorry. You should join the others. Celebrate as you deserve – you fought a fierce battle all night on the frontline, and you deserve some adoration from the prefects and the men."

"I have been celebrating with them, and they all say the same thing." She changed her voice, making it a little deeper. "'The captain charged the enemy headfirst! His magic defeated every mage fighting against us! How can we ever lose?'" She continued in her normal tone, "It is why I came to find you. All these mentions of you made me wonder at your absence."

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"There was really only one elemental mage on the opposing side," Martel remarked with a half-hearted smile. "So it was really an even fight, me against him. Master Gilbert, if you remember him from the Lyceum."

"I do."

"Considering what his tidal wave did to our first cohort, I suspect his magic proved as destructive as mine. The only difference was, we could afford to lose that many men and retake our position. They could not." The thought darkened Martel's mood again.

"You might be happy to know that Sir Theodore survived being swept into the river. He managed to swim ashore downstream."

Considering the value of a mageknight, that was a relief, though Martel immediately felt guilty for thinking in such terms. "What about his soldiers? Did any of them accomplish the same?" Without empowering magic, Martel doubted it.

He saw the answer on Eleanor's face before she spoke. "A few did. Half the cohort is presumed dead."

"I will try to think of it as a blessing that we only faced one elemental mage. I did wonder at that," Martel remarked. "Both the Masters of Air and War fought with the First Legion. Given Master Alastair's abilities, I feared we would face my counterpart on the field as well. I don't want to think about what his spellcraft would have done to us, crowded together on that bridge."

Eleanor slowly nodded. "We were fortunate. We could have had three or four times as many losses, undoubtedly, throwing soldiers at the enemy, waiting for their mages to drain their spellpower. If you are wondering why the Master of Elements was not on the field with the other wizards of the Lyceum, I have no good answer."

"It does make me worried for him, which in itself is a strange feeling. His presence would have been devastating, but his absence makes me concerned for him."

"We will be in Morcaster soon enough, and then we will know," she promised him.

"Stars, I'm a fool!"

"Would the courteous thing be to agree or disagree with my commander on this?"

"Your father. I completely forgot. Has there been any word of him?"

Her playful demeanour disappeared and became a neutral expression. "No sign of him among the dead. Considering he would most likely not have actively participated in the fighting, it is reasonable to assume he withdrew with the others."

"Alright. That's good, at least."

"It is." She stood up. "It has been a long day. I should let you rest. I know the signs of exhaustion on you by now, and your final spell must have left you completely worn out."

"It did. First time I cast it on purpose. I still haven't quite the control over it as I should like." Every other spell came to him without hesitation; this required emotional labour and a different state of mind he could not easily replicate. As powerful as this magic had proven to be, it also felt unreliable and dangerous.

"At least you aimed the fire in the right direction." While a jest, she barely smiled at her own words. "Goodnight, Martel."

"Goodnight."

She left, and he lay down on his cot. Outside, the sounds of the celebration continued, though Martel barely noticed them. His head churned with thoughts. The battle, Master Alastair, Eleanor and her father, his own spellwork; most of all, the siege that still lay ahead of them, promising untold casualties. So many questions to consider, yet none he could answer or knew how to address. He closed his eyes, knowing Eleanor was right. He needed rest and to replenish his spellpower. Morcaster awaited them.